


Wolf Sitter Extraordinaire: Target

by ThomE_Gemcity_06



Series: Wolf Sitter Extraordinaire! [3]
Category: Supernatural, due South
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alcoholic John, Alternate Universe - No Supernatrual, Angst, Child Abuse, Dog-sitter, Drama, Family Issues, Gambling, Gen, Missing Persons, Self-First Aid, Tortured Dean, Worried!Fraser, kid!Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-03
Updated: 2017-02-03
Packaged: 2018-09-21 19:54:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9563960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThomE_Gemcity_06/pseuds/ThomE_Gemcity_06
Summary: With the money that Dean starts to bring in with his sitting job, John starts to gamble but when he goes into debt, Dean becomes a target.  Fraser gets involved.





	1. Part 1

Dean handed the bundle of bills John, who took them with a crooked grin.　

"Nice work," John raised his hand.

Dean waited for the painful hit, but it never came, instead he got a clap on the shoulder. Dean was in shock that it never came. It's happened a few times now, now that he was working for Fraser and was bring back at least $70 a day at least four times a week. He knew that it shouldn't have, but it did. It bagged the question of _'why_?'. He was probably kicking the gift horse in the mouth again.

John wasn't as blackout-drunk as he always was, and he'd been going out more than was usual. Dean still got smacked around but not as much as before. John seemed to fluctuate between two things: not as drunk and not as smacky; or, black-out drunk and very hands on. It had no rhythm or rhyme to it either and Dean could never find out quick enough which one he was walking into.　

Dean had walked into a good mood apparently. And it was when John got the money that he left. Dean watched him go, he stayed standing in the same spot. He waited five minutes before he moved, just to be safe. Dean had tried following him once, but was nearly caught-- not by the police, he probably would have faired better, but by John instead. He knew not to try that again, was stupid to do it in the first place. No, he couldn't have that. So instead, he waited and now that John was gone he could search. This was a high risk thing he was doing, dad may be drunk all the time, but he was always vigilant-- if anything was out of place, he'd know and Dean would pay the price. The twelve-year-old had never done something like this before, but knew that if John found out, he'd leave an unmistakable scar behind.　

He checked every inch of the place. All the cupboards in the small kitchen, the fridge and oven because he'd heard about people hiding things in there. The bathroom, in the toilet tank. He checked in the bedside table, under the bed, under the mattress, in the pillowcase. After he was done he made sure that everything was the way that John had left it. There was nothing. Dean even picked through John's duffle like he was performing surgery or something and still, nothing he could find gave any clue to where John had started to go. Maybe this was a good thing though, maybe it was better that Dean didn't know what he was doing. That way, Dean would be able to deny anything and everything.　

He let out a breath, but his chest was still heavy with that need to want to find out. He laid down on his makeshift bed in the corner by the bathroom. This room had a single queen-sized bed. And of course he didn't have one, look at his life. Dean was surprised that he made it through his toddler-years-- he did have a mother but he couldn't remember her, he was too young back then. Dean thought that she was dead and maybe that was why John swam in alcohol-- losing his life. Or at least that was what Dean hoped it was; there had to be a good reason why his father was an asshole. The motel’s manager was one of those guys where you don't even look at the customer as long as you pay. Dean was very discreet anyway. Having a twelve-year-old running around is very suspicious.　

Dean fell asleep but was instantly awake when the door to the room opened and John came back. He found it easy to gauge the man's mood, actually happy. Dean didn't meet with hands tonight and John completely ignored him as if he wasn't even born-- sometimes that was what Dean wished the most, and that he could take Sammy with him. Dean watched as John went to the bathroom before going to the kitchen and grabbing a beer from the fridge, he sat on the corner of his bed and took a drag. He wasn't blitzed out drunk tonight. He finished the beer before he stood and kicked off his boots and striped, climbing under the covers of his comfortable bed, but not before he took out what Dean was sure was a large bundle of bills, more so than when he left, and tucked them in the drawer. Dean furrowed his brows in the darkness, where had he gotten all that? Dean knew that John didn't have a job, hadn't since the last time he could remember.　

With this curiosity came suspicion. If John could easily get that much money by actually going out for a few hours, then why did Dean have to work his ass off for this piece of garbage?　

He'd never felt this kind of contempt before.

0-0　

When Dean came to watch Diefenbaker two days later, Fraser noted that something rotten was brewing underneath. He wanted to ask what was wrong, it was like an itch, but he knew that it would be a bad idea. The best case scenario would be that that rottenness would grow and some would turn towards Fraser and then Dief would have to deal with it for the day, or, it would cause Dean to run off. That was something that Fraser didn't think he could have. Dean was troubled; Fraser just knew it. He was certain that there was something about Dean's home-life that wasn't right, but he couldn't seem to find anything. Fraser, against Dean's trust, had tried to follow the boy home, but to no avail. Dean was good at losing a tail, and if Fraser had wanted to get anywhere he knew that he probably should have taken Dief along with-- but that brang along a greater chance of discovery. Being cloaked in red and in the company of a wolf was never good for blending in.

So Fraser found that there was nothing else he could do but leave it alone.　

"It will only be for a few hours this time." Fraser assured Dean.

Dean just nodded in answer, his eyes narrowed.　

Fraser looked at him and sighed.　

"Dean..." Fraser started to ask but instead trailed off, he couldn't seem to do it.　

Dean looked up at him, a seemingly daring expression on his freckled face.　

Fraser sighed again. "Try not to give him any junk food." He said instead.　

"That's not my fault!" Dean protested, his face finally animated. "Dief's the one at fault." Diefenbaker barked in protest, but the two guys ignored him. "I turn my back for a second and he snatches anything off the counter as if he's starving!" he scoffed at the prospect of it.　

Fraser found himself laughing because that's exactly what Dief seemed to do to Vecchio. Despite himself, Dean grinned at little.　

 **"** Feel free to leash him if you have to." Fraser smiled.　

Dief growled, not liking that scenario at all.

"Then don't sneak snacks." Fraser scolded the wolf.　

Dief whined.

Dean smirked at the bond that the two seemed to have and found himself faintly wishing that he had something like that with anyone. He didn't have that with Sammy, he was barely able to see the eight-year-old as it was and half the time Sammy didn't even remember him. He gave an internal sigh.

　0-0　

Fraser had been right when he said that it'd only be for a few hours. Dean got $30 for his trouble and when he got home, it wasn't enough.　

John was angry-drunk when Dean got back to the room. He'd already yelled at Dean and smacked the back of his head hard in the 10 seconds that he'd been in the room. His mood turned even more foul when Dean held out the thirty dollars Fraser had given him.

"This is it?" John demanded, shoving the bills in Dean's face before he threw them on the floor in his anger.　

Dean clenched his jaw and didn't saw anything. He knew what was going to happen and there was no way that lipping back was going to help him. But the silence seemed to piss John off too and he slapped Dean hard enough to snap his head to the side, he felt tears sting his eyes. He held his cheek and didn't look at John.　

"You've been out all day and this is all you have to show for it? You're a useless piece of garbage!" John shouted. "Look at me when I'm talking to you!" he slapped Dean again and grabbed the boy's chin tightly and jerked his head. "What do you do all day? Huh!"　

"Nuthin'." Dean muttered.　

John smacked him. "What?"　

"Nothing, sir!" Dean ground out through his teeth.

"That's right!" John agreed, spat in his face. He shoved Dean, who stumbled back with the force into the door behind him. He hit Dean harder this time, sending the boy to the floor and his ears ringing. "You're nothing!" he kicked Dean in the stomach who was unable to defend himself, and who couldn’t help by cry out at the impact. "A waste of space!" kick. "A piece of shit!" kick. "I don't even know why I keep you around!" he spat in Dean's face and kicked him once more. "Now get outta my face!" he turned around and swiped a palm over his face and through his hair.　

Dean's hand scrambled for the doorknob, twisting it in his fingers. He crawled through the crack on his hands and knees as quick as he could before he pulled it closed behind him. He painfully pulled himself up, an arm wrapped around his middle as he stumbled several blocks before he found himself in the dark corner of an alley. He slid down the wall with a whimper and forced the tears that wanted to flood, back. This was one of the lesser assaults, but he was in pain nonetheless, especially when he started to cough. He pushed on his battered stomach to lessen the pain, and found his stomach in his throat. He doubled over and retched, puking what little contents that were in his stomach, out. After every pay, he would take five bucks and buy a cheeseburger and fries or two hotdogs and that would be his meal for the day- sometimes two.

When John says to get out, Dean doesn't hesitate-- why the hell would he stay? He goes back when he has cash, but he's not away longer than three days. He'd sleep here tonight, it wasn't like he hadn't before. He could go to a shelter, but that would risk the chance that Social Services would drop by ‘anonymously‘. _Right_. Oh yeah; there was that possibility that he could go to Fraser, he knew that that man would do something-- he probably already knew that there was something up with Dean.  　

He shifted from his spew before he lowered himself down onto the ground, it was chilly but not overly cold-- this was good for him since he just had on a t-shirt with jeans. It was the only clothes that he owned, something that he was sure that Fraser must have noticed as well.

 _It doesn’t matter._ Dean shifted, trying to get comfortable. It was hard, his stomach was an ache and he knew that in the morning it was going to be bruised, if it wasn't already. Tomorrow he had his paper route and hopefully that would yield him some cash and give him enough time to heal so that the Mountie wouldn't suspect anything when they next saw each other.

0-0　

As it turned out, Fraser needed him to watch Diefenbaker, he had business at the Consulate or something-- Dean didn't know. He tried to walk normally, not wrap an arm around his middle.

When he woken up, he had such trouble to get upright. The whole of his abdomen was black and purple with bruises. He was stiff. It hurt if he coughed or sneezed. If he touched it. He was sure that there was no inner damages, so that was something. He'd tried to clean himself up some, had washed up in a public bathroom in the park.　

Fraser had looked at him so intensely when Dean met with the Constable that morning after, like he was peeling back his skin and could tell that he was hiding something. Dean tried not to act nervous, kept it short-- which was easy because Fraser was in a hurry.　

So now Dean had to take Dief with him on his route, and hopefully the wolf would stay out of trouble this time.　

"Please don't get in trouble," Dean begged the wolf as he loaded all his news papers into the bag across his shoulder.　

Dief let out a whining-yip in answer and Dean wasn't quite sure if that meant that he _would_ or he couldn't promise anything. If Dean knew anything about the wolf, it was probably that last one.　

"I can't believe you," Dean muttered to him, walking away.　

The bag was heavy and it slowed him down, didn't help him with his stomach; but he needed to deliver these and luckily it was the end of the week so he'd get paid, that along with the money he'd get from Fraser should be enough to not get whacked-- tonight at least, or so he hoped.　

Dief was in front of him, off the leash. The wolf was everywhere and Dean knew that he wouldn't be able to deliver papers if he was attached to the canine.　

He was a quarter through when he got that itch between his shoulder blades. The little hairs on the back of his neck rose, and his exposed arms flushed with goose bumps. All the symptoms of being watched, it was too precise to be his paranoia.　

Someone was watching him, he was sure of it. He forced himself not to glance behind himself and keep delivering his papers. Knowing of a way to look around him without being too obvious, as he came down that step from the apartment, he accidentally-on-purpose dropped a news paper and as he bent to pick it up, his sharp gaze taking in the crowd behind him. He couldn't help the slight wince that crossed his face as he straightened and kept moving. He didn't notice anyone overly obvious, but as he finished his route, the itch never went away. The fact that Dief seemed to stick close from then on indicated that Dean wasn't going crazy.　

Dean still had a few hours to kill after he was finished with his delivers, and he after he dropped off his bag and got his pay-- only thirty dollars-- he took Dief to the park on 5th. Dief went rampant, tearing up the ground as if he'd been locked up since he was a pup. He roughhoused with a few other dogs that were in the park, as well as some smaller kids that were with their parents.　

That wolf was such a freak, he probably had to be one to hang out with Fraser all day. And Dean couldn't help the smirk that stretched across his lips.

"Hey! Kid!" a guy yelled and Dean glanced over his shoulder to find a blue uniform making its way towards him.

Whether the cop was actually after him, Dean didn't know. Didn't care to stay and find out; it was a week day before three and he should be in school-- that was actually something that he was surprised that the Constable hadn't figured out yet. But now was not the time for that sort of stuff. He got out of sight, turning it out of mind as he stuck to the shadows the rest of the time that they were in the park.　

It was rounding six when they finally headed back to Fraser's apartment.　

"What's up with you?" Dean may have asked and didn't know why, he didn't want to make small conversation. He wanted to spend as less time with the RCMP Constable as he could, but he was reluctant to head back to the motel. He always was when John lost it and he found his hand reach for his stomach at the reminder, but jerked it to a stop before it could get too far. He wanted to believe that Fraser didn't catch it, but the Mountie's eyes were as keen as his own.　

Fraser had been surprised when Dean asked how he was, well not in so many grunts as it were. He caught the disgruntled look that crossed his face, the jerk of his arm. He held back the smile. He didn't know much about the boy, but knew that he was warming to the two Canadians. He knew that the boy was uncomfortable, that he didn't exactly mean to ask the question and he just wanted to get out of there. Fraser didn't want to scare him off for good, so he saved the boy.　

"I apologize for dumping Dief on you today when I told you that you weren't needed." Fraser told him.　

"It's fine," Dean breathed out, feeling a little of the tension leave his shoulders, his stomach uncramp.　

"I've added a little extra," Fraser told him, holding out the fold of bills-- American.

"You don't have to do that," Dean said, taking it with hesitation.　

"It's fine," Fraser nodded.　

"Okay," his voice was quiet and he tucked the money in his jeans pocket. "I'll see you later." He muttered, turning around and skirting the corner.　

Fraser sighed, as he watched the boy go. Diefenbaker barked down at his side and Fraser looked at him. "I know," Fraser agreed, his hand on the wolf's head as the canine let out a whine. "I know,"　

Fraser knew that Dean was in trouble. It was in Dean's eyes, they were strong but cracked with resignation. Fraser didn't like it one bit and neither did Dief. Whatever was happening with Dean, money was not the final solution.

0-0

When Dean got back to the room, John was passed out drunk and Dean gave a silent sigh of relief. He wasn't sure what he'd be walking into, whether it was a drunken-pissed John or not. He was glad that it was this one though. He set the $120 on the side table where John would see it when he woke up, and went to his makeshift bed in the corner, curling into a ball.　

Dean didn't get why Fraser would give him more money, it was insane. If it was anyone else in Chicago he'd probably get two dollars an hour or something, but not Fraser-- 10 was his price. And for some reason Dean felt guilty about taking the money, especially today when the man added extra. He was sure that more money would pave his way to a hands-free day or two, that if he made more money, John wouldn't yell or hit. That was why Dean took it, even if it didn't feel right. Felt like he was stealing it to just hand it over to an asshole who didn't deserve it.　

He didn't know why John had flipped about the money, thirty would have been enough to get a bottle. But it seemed more than that, he'd never freaked that bad. Hopefully the 120 dollars would make him happy. But what Dean didn't get was where John had gotten all that money the few nights before and why he couldn't just get that again.　

 _Stupid drunk._ Dean vowed never to touch alcohol.　

0-0　

Over the next week Dean still felt that itch between his shoulder blades: when he was in the park with Dief or in Fraser's apartment; when he was outside in general and even when he was at the motel. John was... Sober. Dean was sure of it and that was what put him on edge. He couldn't remember the last time that John was sober-- he _was_ , but he was paying a lot of attention to Dean. And it was all about the money-- John was constantly on Dean about the money and every time, even when Dean did bring back some cash, John always hit him. And another thing, John didn't only switch rooms, but switched to a different motel-- like he was running or something. Dean didn't get it at all.

Dean was a paranoid, nervous wreck. He found himself constantly glancing over his shoulder, no longer trying to be subtle about it, but no one was there-- **ever**. His nerves were a wreck every time he entered the room, knowing that he was going to get hit but wishing that he wouldn't-- a wish never to come true.　

John may have been sober, but his breath was sour. Something was making his fearful, something that Dean had never seen before, and it was making John unpredictable and not think right. He'd stopped being careful when he hit Dean, not open-handed anymore. Fear musta made him stupid. Dean would come out with a black eye or a spilt lip-- new experiences for him.　

He'd turned up like that to take care of Dief and Fraser was staring at him. Just staring. Dean knew that man was dying to ask, _needed_ to ask Dean-- it was in his nature. But he was painfully forcing himself to keep his lips sealed.　

"School," Dean had told him blandly.

Fraser didn't say anything, but his expression did-- so Dean was now sure that the Canadian knew about the whole not going to school thing. Fine, Dean could run if need be, but for now he needed the money more than he had before, which was desperate. He'd even tried pick-pocketing a few times-- he wasn't that good. Yet.　

But nothing serious had happened in that week, until one night…　

Dean was coming back to the room after a wasted day. The thing about working for Fraser, was the fact that he wasn't needed every single day. Diefenbaker was basically a police dog, and Fraser took him on most of their cases and the other times Dean was lucky to get the three times a week. Today wasn't one such day. Today was the day that he was actually desperate enough to try and pick-pocket, something that didn't go over well, so now as he stood in front of the room's door in the darkness, he tried to prepare himself for the greeting that would meet him on the other side when he came empty handed.

His hand grasped the knob when he felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up and before he could turn around, he was grabbed from behind. A strong arm wrapped around his chest, effectively pinning his arms to his sides, he tried to kick and scream, but he was lifted from the ground and a big hand clamped over his lips.　

"You make a sound and I'll snap your scrawny little neck." A hot breath hissed into his ear and Dean's muffled cries cut off and his struggles halted. "Good."

"Just get the door already." A guy behind them barked.

"Pleasure, boss." The man holding Dean said. And he booted the door in, splintering the knob.　

Dean didn't know what John had been doing before, probably in an exhausted doze, but he was definitely up and alert now-- and full of fear. Barge, that was what Dean was going to call the guy that had him in a grip because from what the small boy could feel, he was huge, walked into the room. Boss strutted in after, shooing the door closed with the toe of his shoe as if it was out of his hand’s league-- Dean didn't want to admit it, but it somehow seemed to make that much more scarier.　

"Johnny, Johnny, Johnny." Boss _tsk_ ed around the toothpick between his lips.

"Mr. Mario, sir." John stuttered.

Dean looked at his father in disappointment, what the hell had he to fear from these two? Dean obviously had a legit reason, he was just a kid, not even a teenager, but John was big!　

"Well?" Mario growled, "I don't like to ask twice and enjoy it even less when I have to _find_ people. Where's the money?!"

"I don't have it." John voice was so quiet that Dean had to strain his ears.

Boss didn't seem to like this fact and he took a step forward before anyone could blink and backhanded John, the rings on his fingers cutting the other man's cheek. John’s head cocked slightly to the side and he didn't move or make a sound a blood dribble down his stubble. Despite whatever was happening right now, and that he was fearful, Dean got a sick satisfaction at John finally getting hurt. Boss wiped his hand on John shirt before he took his step back.

"I've given you plenty of time, John." Boss said. "Plenty."

John swallowed.　

Barge had taken his hand from Dean's mouth, but the boy didn't make a sound anyway, his focus intent of whatever was happening in front of him. Was this the reason why John needed the money so bad, because he took it from this scary guy? Dean shook his head, it didn't quite seem like that. If John did take money from this guy, then Boss wouldn't being asking, right?　

Boss glanced at Dean. "He's your money maker, huh?" he questioned, the toothpick bobbing between his teeth.　

John gave a jerky nod.

"It would be bad for you if something happened to him, wouldn't it?" Boss continued.　

"Yes," John's voice cracked.　

Boss stepped to Barge and Dean and reached out, grasping a handful of Dean dark blond hair, jerking the boy's head back roughly. Dean let out a yelp and started up his struggles, no longer fine with listening, but self preservation. That quickly stopped when there was a flash of movement from Boss and a blade snapped free in his hand.　

"You make a sound and I pop your pretty little eye out." Boss hissed, his blade flat against Dean pale freckled cheek, the pointed tip brushing his lower eye lashes.　

So yeah, that stopped his struggles pretty quick, the twelve-year-old fearful that if he even _blinked_ that the blade would slip into his eye.

"Good. Isn't that right, John?" Boss didn't have to glance at the man to know that he gave a jerky nod. "You're four days late in your payment, John, and that upsets me greatly. But I can see you have it tough, so I'm going to be lenient just this once, though not _too_ lenient-- I have a business to run. One finger for every day overdue, John."　

Dean trembled in Barge's grip. The knife wasn't there anymore and now he feared that he was going to loose some fingers. Boss grabbed his right wrist, twisting his arm that was pinned by Barge at an awkward angle. Dean grimaced, his bottom lip wobbling. Boss took his index finger by the second knuckle and without preamble, bent it backward. No finger was meant to bend that far backwards, so that the tip of Dean's finger nearly touched his wrist. He cried out, it was cut short when Barge's meaty hand clamped around his lower face. Tears filled his eyes and he struggle in the hold. It did nothing and Boss took his middle finger and did the same thing. Two more times after that it happened; each the same but the combination of the pain was more. The sound of it always came first; the cracking snap. Then, the pain; it was a sharp pain accompanied by an intense ache then a hearty throbbing. His freckled cheeks were drenched in tears, slobber covered his chin and Barge's hand as he cried openly, shaking against the muscled chest, his cries muffled.　

Boss dusted off his hands as he turned back to John who had been silent through the whole thing. "Look what you made me do, John. You know I don't like to get my hands dirty." He snapped and John flinched, but the Boss just moved to the door. "Four more days. If you don't have my money, your kid’s only going to be able to use his thumbs." And he left.　

The Barge dropped Dean unceremoniously onto the floor and moved to John. "Four days." He hissed. And then he socked him right in the face with his meaty paw, knocking John out cold in that one blow. And he then he left as well, shutting the door behind him.

Dean lay where he was on the floor, curled into a ball. He held his mangled fingers in his hand. His tears had slowed but his face was still wet and quiet sobs left his throat. He tried not to think about the pain, but the sight of his hand... He didn't know what to do. John hadn't moved, he just sat there staring at the floor while it happened. He didn't do anything. Dean had thought that maybe, just maybe, if John was ever going to act like a father, it might have been then. But he hadn't, he'd been a coward and now Dean was sure that he knew what _hate_ was-- it was what he felt towards John in this moment.　

Dean slowly pushed himself up and leaned against the wall, his hand held gently in his lap. It didn't hurt as much as it did when his fingers were first snapped, but they still hurt nonetheless. They throbbed with heat and ache and were contained with painful pins and needles. They were broken and Dean didn't know what to do. He couldn't rely on John for anything, the asshole didn't do anything while that man was breaking his finger so why would he do anything now? No. Dean was sure that when John woke up that he'd want money. It was always about that. It didn't matter that whatever he was doing was hurting others, hurting Dean. All the preteen was to him was his 'money maker'.　

Dean sniffed and wiped his face on the sleeve of his tee. He had to do something about his fingers. He'd even thought for a second of going to Fraser. Fraser would know what to do, he always seemed to and Dean knew that the Canadian wouldn't ask questions either-- he was sure of it. But... he couldn't do that. Dean did feel embarrassed and ashamed because Fraser was treating him really well and Dean was lying to him. He couldn't bring the cops into this. So, since John was never going to do anything because he was the useless one, Dean was going to have to find a way to fix his fingers. He couldn't go to the hospital either, that was out of the question. It would draw attention. He'd seen some stuff on TV; all he had to do was straighten out his fingers with splint-things and then ice it, right?　

He pulled himself to his feet, sniffing. He wasn’t sure how he was going to do this. A drug store would be open; that wasn’t the problem. It was his hand. What was he supposed to do with it? It wasn't like he could walk into the store with it in full view. He didn't have a long sleeved shirt or anything like that; just his tee and jeans. 　

Dean felt like crying again, the only thing that he could do to hide his fingers was shove them in his tight pocket. He went outside and in the shadows he braced himself. Breathe. Just breathe. He clenched his jaw and with his good hand pulled at his pocket, trying to make it as open as he possibly could as he did this. He couldn't move his fingers. He ground his teeth and started to put his hand in his pocket. He screamed through his teeth. Fresh tears springing in his eyes, but he forced it back, he had to. It felt like someone was grabbing his fingers and squeezing them without mercy. He needed to get this done as quickly as possible. He walked as quick as he could to the drug store, trying not to jostle his fingers in their confined area. Before he went into the store, he wiped the layer of sweat from his face and tried to control his breathing and the pained expression on his face.　

He found the stuff and the guy behind the counter was looking at him funny, but he rung the items in. For the four finger splints, a wrap and two ice packs cost him all of his food money. He wouldn't be able to eat until the next time he watched Dief and Dean didn't know when that was going to be.

He got back to the room and John was still out, whether from the punch or was now snoozing, Dean didn't even want to know. He went straight to the bathroom, locking the door. He set his bag down and removed his hand carefully from his pocket, whimpering as he did so. He ran his fingers under hot water, something that he could barely feel before he lightly patted them dry. He needed to straighten them, to fix them before they started to heal or something.　

He stuffed a towel into his mouth before he did so and it felt like his fingers were being broken all over again. He screamed and he cried like he had last time. He saw spots and the pain flared. He pulled the towel from his mouth and with a shaking left hand he haphazardly wrapped his fingers with the splints. He sat on the toilet for a long time, riding through the ache before he stripped and took a quick shower, afterward he did a half-hearted job of washing his clothes in the tub. He wrung them out best he could and hung them on the side of the tub before he just sat on the mat, fingers throbbing. He cracked the ice pack and laid it on his injured fingers, wincing.　

What was he going to do when John finally woke up?　

He hadn't come up with anything the hour later that that sac finally did gain consciousness. He had a towel wrapped around his waist, his clothes still drying on the edge of the tub. He stood staring down at John, disgust clear in his eyes.　

John groaned, twisting on the bed, his face scrunched up. "Shit." He cursed, rubbing his bruised and cut face as he forced himself to sit up. John looked at Dean through squinted eyes. "What are you looking at?" he sneered.　

"You. Who were those men?" Dean asked.

"That's none of your business." John said.　

"They broke my fingers." Dean swallowed. "I deserve to know."　

John laughed. "You don't deserve anything!"

"No, **you** don't!" Dean snapped. "You're the one that's a poor excuse for a man." His freckled nose flared, he knew that it a second he was going to regret what he just yelled, but _this_ second it felt so good. To finally not hold back, to get it off his chest.　

John didn't think so. His jaw muscles jumped and his eyes burned angry. He backhanded Dean as hard as Barge had socked John, and it sent Dean sprawling. He shrieked in pain as he landed on his broken fingers and a sob left his throat. He rolled onto his side and held his hand, tears glossed his eyes with pain. He didn't have any sort of pain medication, not even Advil.　

John stood from the bed and stepped over to Dean, towering over him. A sneer was on his lips. "You talk to me like that again, and I'll be the one to break your fingers."

"Yes, sir." Dean's voice cracked and he looked up at his father through fear filled eyes.

"Good. Now get out of my sight."　

"I-I need my clothes." Dean told him.　

John expression said that he was on the edge of hitting Dean again, but instead of doing that, he stepped into the bathroom and grabbed Dean clothes. He whipped them at Dean who had gotten to his feet and rushed for the door.

"If you don't have money, don't come back at all!" John yelled as Dean slammed the door behind him.　

Dean slipped on his wet jeans and shirt before he stepped off the pave. He shivered as he walked, it was probably four in the morning. Dean couldn't believe that John had sent him outside after what had happened. But he should have because John was selfish and never did anything for anyone other than himself-- not even his own son.　

Dean's fingers were on fire. He didn't have an icepack, he didn't have any money. He was wet and cold and... he was scared. At one moment or another, Dean found himself outside Fraser apartment. He didn't stay too long. Didn't even know why he'd ended up there in the first place. Dean also found himself at the waterfront, leaning over the edge and holding his broken fingers into the frozen water. His teeth chattered but he still left it in the water.　

John had said not to come back if he didn't have money, so that was what Dean was going to do. He wasn't going to go back, not ever. He'd go into hiding. And when four days are up, Boss'll break John's fingers instead.　

0-0

Fraser was growing worried when he didn't see Dean for more than two days. It was very unlike the boy. He always showed up like clockwork, even when Dief didn't need to be looked after. The wolf hated that term, but the Mountie couldn't think of any other way to put it.

"Just leave it alone, Fraser." Vecchio had sighed, he'd been doing that a lot lately.　

"I can't do that, Ray." Fraser would answer every time.

And he couldn't. Dean may not have wanted it, but Fraser cared. Even if he didn't know anything about the boy, he did. It was in his nature and it was in Diefenbaker's nature. Dean needed help, and Fraser would provide it even though the preteen didn't desire it. Whether this made Fraser nosey-- Vecchio said that was what it was-- but it didn't matter if his nosiness helped people.　

Fraser was positive that he'd seen Dean two nights before, across the street and in the shadow. But by the time that he'd made it down to the walk, the boy was gone. He knew that he wasn't just imagining things when Diefenbaker gave him that bark-- the same one when he dropped the wolf off on Dean unexpectedly.　

He was going to find Dean. This time he was. He had forced himself not to all those other times because he didn't want to scare the boy off, but not this time. He was committed this time around, he was going full-on RCMP.

He knew for a fact that Dean wasn't in school. He obviously wasn't connected with a family that had money; he only seemed to own one pair of clothes, but he and they were always clean. So that would mean that he didn't live on the streets; but his home life can't have been good if he wasn't at school and only had one set of clothes. His home was abusive, Fraser just knew it. It was the look in his eyes, and that black eye and split lip told him that.

Dean was a good liar, but Fraser knew better. And he was sure that it had something to do with the money, something had been wrong after he'd given Dean just that $30. The black eye and split lip happened after Fraser gave him the $120, but why? The sudden violence and the need for money... a gambling debt? It seemed to fit.　

So the first thing that Fraser knew that he had to do was get a picture of Dean. He couldn't get one from the system, because he didn't know the boy's last name and there was the fact that he may not even be in the system-- and Fraser was going to try and do this thing off the books as much as possible. He didn't want to get Dean into any kind of trouble. So Fraser did the next best thing, he sketched Dean's face.　

The first place that he went with that sketch was to the post office. That was where Dean found his number and that was where Dean always called from. It was the best start. He talked to the post man, the same one from before. It didn't draw up anything pinpoint for Fraser. It did look like Dean frequented the post office, using the payphone outside. But he'd come from all directions circling it a few times it would seem, so Fraser wouldn't be able pinpoint an exact location on which are Dean might live. But it was obvious to assume that if he frequented this payphone, he lived near.　

So Fraser, along with Diefenbaker, did the whole shebang. He scouted a two block radius around the post office, asking pedestrians and his network of eyes. He always got nondescript accounts though. Just a kid passing through, it was regular so they thought nothing of it. Fraser thanked them kindly before going on his way.　

He was about to give up, Dief didn't like that one bit. He was stubborn and he planted his behind on the sidewalk. Fraser looked down at him.　

"Now is the time for this, Diefenbaker." Fraser told him.

Dief barked, _You're the one who's giving up._ 　

"I'm not giving up!" Fraser protested.　

 _You are,_ Dief yipped.　

Fraser glowered down at him. "It's late."　

 _Excuses,_ the wolf's look stated clearly.　

"It's not an excuse. I have been looking for Dean with fever, something that I can't say for you." Fraser _humphed_.　

Dief let out a whine, _I'm a wolf_.　

Fraser expression was dour. "Now who's making excuses?"　

Dief grumbled, _Just ask._ He twitched his ears back.　

Fraser furrowed his brows and looked to where the half-wolf had jerked his ears. They'd stopped in front of a rundown motel, one of the many that were scattered around the city of Chicago, and many like this were around his neighbourhood. A woman was coming out of her room, her bags in hand and she locked her door. Leaving.

"Her?" Fraser questioned the wolf.　

Dief barked.　

"Fine." Fraser made his way over to the women, taking the sketch of Dean from his tunic pocket, getting there before she got into her car. "Excuse me, Ma'am? Have you happened to have seen this boy?" he showed her the picture.

Diefenbaker was right, though Fraser was never going to admit that directly to the half-wolf.　

The woman had only been there for two weeks, but she'd seen the boy in the sketch many times. They never talked, of course, but he'd come and go; leaving early in the morning and coming back late at night. Dean was two doors from her, but she'd always hear yelling through the walls, always one-sided though. A man's voice, always a man's voice. Sometimes she wouldn't see him for days. But the most scary thing had happened two nights ago. These two big scary men came and they kicked in the door. There was a lot of yelling and then there was there a scream. She was going to call the cops but then it went silent. She hadn't seen Dean since.　

Fraser thanked her kindly for her time and stepped away as she got in the car and drove away. Dief trotted over to him and yapped.

"Don't get all high on me." Fraser told him. "We're not finished yet."　

Fraser went two doors down. He noticed the wood around the door's knob was splintered, something that was consistent with the woman's story. He knocked and he waited. He could hear fumbling from the inside and knew that someone was there.

"Who-who is it?" a voice came from behind the door. Not Dean.

"My name is Fraser," Fraser called through the door. "I'm looking for a boy named Dean."　

There was a growl behind the door and then it flung open. "What had that little asshole done now?" John demanded.　

Fraser took him in. In his forties. Beard. Sweaty. Hung-over. Black eye. And overall asshole. Fraser could see it in those beady eyes, sour breath, tone of voice.

"I believe he's missing." Fraser said. "Are you his father?"

"Unfortunately." John muttered under the breath. "And I know he's missing, he's my kid!"　

"Yes, of course." Fraser nodded, feeling an anger inside him. "But he's been working for me and I haven't seen him."　

"Who are you again?" John asked, looking at Fraser's uniform. "A door man."　

"Yes." Fraser lied, knowing that this man wouldn't appreciate it and somehow that would reflect on Dean.

"So what's it to you?"

"I haven't seen him for two days."　

"And that concerns you how?"　

"You're the one that should be concerned." Fraser told him.　

"My kid is my business."　

"Is that why you hit him?"　

"What I do to my kid ain't your concern." John scoffed.　

"Hitting Dean is my concern. You'd don't have a right." Fraser growled. Dief had agreed with that.　

"I have every right." John told him.

Fraser grabbed the front of John's shirt roughly. "You are a piece of scum and have _no_ right to treat that boy like that!"　

John tried to shove him off, but Fraser held tight. Dief barred his teeth in reaction and let out a growl, John froze.　

"Now," Fraser said through his teeth. "You're going to tell me where Dean is."　

"I don't know."

"Then tell me who your bookie is." Fraser said.　

"Mario. Mario!" John told him.　

"You're coming with me." Fraser said through his teeth.

He dragged John across the street to the payphone. There, he dialled Vecchio.

"Ray, I need you to come to the motel near the post office on Bernard." Fraser told the detective curtly.　

" _I'll be there in five, Benny."_ 　

Fraser hung up the phone and crossed his arms over his chest as he locked John down with narrowed eyes. Dief kept his teeth barred and a continuous growl left his chest.　

True to his word, Vecchio showed up in five minutes. He was about to pull into the motel's lot but Fraser waved him over to the other side of the street.　

"What's up, Fraser?" Vecchio asked, looking between him and John.

"This is Dean's father." Fraser said with apparent disgust.　

"Fraser." Vecchio grabbed the Canadian's arm and pulled him a few feet away. He glanced back a John. "I told you to leave that alone."　

"I can't do that." Fraser told him.　

"Yes, you can. By simply leaving it alone." Vecchio reasoned.　

"But it's not that simple. Dean's missing."

Vecchio shook his head. "What proof do you have?"

"I haven't seen him for two days."　

"That isn't proof. He hung up on you before, what's to say he didn't just skip out, hmm?" Vecchio crossed his arms.　

"Dean isn't like that!" Fraser protested.

"You don't even know anything about that kid." Vecchio told him.　

"When have I ever been wrong about something like this." Fraser asked him, forcing calm because there was a frustration inside of him-- he knew that he should have taken action earlier.　

Vecchio seemed to grind his teeth in frustration. "Never."

"See."

"So what do you want me to do about it?"　

"Arrest this man." Fraser's voice was pleading.

"Under what?" Vecchio asked, looking a John through squinted eyes.

"Miss care of an minor." Fraser told him to start off with. "Child abuse. Failure to provide stable home environment. None enrolment in an governmental education program. Malnutrition..."　

"Alright!" Vecchio held up his hands.　

"Thank you kindly, Ray." Fraser nodded.

"Whatever." Vecchio sighed. "Was that all?"　

"I need to know who one would go to in this part of town if they wanted to gamble as well." Fraser said.　

"Uh, let's see..." Vecchio blew out a breath as he thought. "You best bet would be Mario. He's seven blocks away, you want me to drive?"　

Fraser shook his head. "You have to book him, and it'd be better if I do it alone. I call you if I need anything."　

"Alright." Vecchio shrugged his shoulders. He turned to John, reaching for his cuffs. "Looks like you're going to jail, buddy." He slapped the cuffs on.

"For what?" John demanded with crazy eyes.

"Beating your kid?" Vecchio shook his head. "That's not cool at all!" he dragged John to the car and threw him in the back. "Call me." He told Fraser before he climbed into the car and drove off.　

"Come on, Dief." Fraser made a gesture and started to walk. Dief barked and followed, glad to finally get this moving again.　

0-0　

"Never seen him before in my life." Boss told Fraser.　

Fraser was silent for a moment as he looked at the bookie with the toothpick between his teeth. "You didn't even look at it." He said.

Boss looked at him. "You calling me a liar?"

"No. I was simply stating a fact." Fraser stated, still holding up the sketch of Dean.

"Oh, look, Georgie. We got a smart guy!" He looked at the fairly big gentleman at his side, his goon or who Dean had so affectionately called him, Barge.

Fraser didn't comment on that. "Have _you_ seen this boy?" he asked Barge.

"Have you, Georgie? Seen this kid with the eyes, and there um _fingers_ of his." Boss smirked and at the word _fingers_ the toothpick between his teeth snapped.　

Barge chuckled. "Haven't seen the twerp, not once, Boss."

"Well, there you have it, Mr. Constable." Boss said, tossing the toothpick. "I think you can show yourself out safely."

"Thank you kindly." Fraser turned on his head and left the building. They weren't kind and Fraser had not wanted to thank them at all.　

Boss called after him, "Hope you find him in a couple of days, it's not safe out there for pretty kid like that!"

As he made his way down the street, Dief at his side, barked at him. Fraser glanced at the wolf. "Yes, I know he was lying." He snapped.

Dief growled.　

"Sorry. I know that you haven't done anything wrong." Fraser sighed. "As much as I don't want to, we're going to have to pick this up in the morning." He patted the wolf's head and got a grumble for his troubles.　

Fraser knew that what Mario had said when he left was a warning, that in the next two nights, Dean was his. The Constable knew that he had to find the boy before then.

0-0


	2. Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fraser finds Dean, but the trouble isn't over yet.

It was hopeless. Fraser knew that he had two days to find Dean. Usually, that was all it took the Mountie. Anyone else he would have found already. But he hadn't found Dean. Not a trace of the boy. Dief couldn't find his scent. If Fraser hadn't known any better, he would have thought that Dean either didn't exist or that he was dead. But he _did_ know better and knew that Dean was smart and resourceful and couldn't be found if he didn't want to be.　

John was still in a holding cell. They couldn't process him without Dean’s testimony, the boy was all the proof that they had. But Fraser didn't like that fact because here, John was safe from Mario. But Dean was out there, alone. And that wasn't safe for the boy, and if Fraser had things straight, Dean was injured-- if he had been reading what Mario had said right.　

After those two days of finding nothing, Fraser went to Vecchio. He had to beg and plead and he knew that it wasn't like him, but he was desperate for Vecchio to put out a BOLO. But because Dean wasn't a criminal and a kid, it didn't seem to do much good, and Fraser soon realized that with cops patrolling to look for him, Dean might go into deeper hiding-- wherever he was. So Fraser made Vecchio pull it. Vecchio was tight lipped as he did so.　

After a few more hours on the street that night, showing them Dean's picture, he headed home with slumped shoulders.　

Feeling bad for his friend, Vecchio gave him a ride.　

0-0　

It was the aloneness that got to the twelve-year-old. It was something that he couldn't take. It was another excuse as to why he stayed with John, because even if his father was abusive, at least he wasn't alone. It wasn't the fact that he was starving after five days in hiding, the cold, the fear, the pain that he was in, the exhaustion of being afraid to close his eyes, the sickness.　

None of it but the loneliness.　

He hadn't stayed in one place for long in those five days. He'd stayed in three different abandoned buildings nowhere near the motel. That was where they'd be looking. He was scared of what would happen if he went to the cops. Didn't want to be exposed out on the street because of Boss and Barge, he didn't want his other fingers broken or worse because he ran. John would kill him if he went back, he had no plans of doing that even if he died because of it. He was scared and he couldn't trust anyone. Before this it was like that, but after what had happened in that motel room-- everyone was the enemy.　

Except for maybe one person.　

Fraser.　

That was the only one that Dean could think that he could trust-- even if he was connected with the cops. Fraser had been nothing but helpful, trustworthy and treated him with actual respect. Something that Dean had never had before. And he knew that Fraser would do whatever was right.　

That was why, at the cover of night, Dean came out of hiding and made that painstaking venture to the third floor-- he even used that elevator that didn't look like it could carry a sac of oranges; that's probably all Dean weighted about now. It wasn't as if he hadn't eaten a bite in five days, but it wasn't as if he had a _meal_ in those days either. Even though it wasn't safe, Dean was glad that Fraser didn't have a lock on the door-- apparently that was stolen. Dean was still baffled by that concept.　

It was dark in Fraser’s apartment, and despite the fact that he'd come here for Fraser, he was glad. This place felt safe, safer than where he was before. He shut the door quietly, making sure that it didn't click, careful of loud noises. He turned. He really needed to sit. But then he had to go to the bathroom. And he was hungry. He didn't know what to do first. Bathroom, probably. But that didn't much matter because there was a loud cracking sound as the door was kicked open, the edge of it hit him in the back and he was thrown forward into the small section of wall. He jerked his arm out to the side, avoiding hurting his broken fingers anymore, and instead, cracked his head.　

He fell to the floor, groaning in pain. His hairline cut and bleeding. He rolled over and with blurry eyes looked at the doorway.　

"You thought you could hide from me?!" Boss demanded. "Get him up." He ordered.　

Barge came into view and one hand grabbed a handful of Dean's shirt while the other one went for his neck and lifted him up. Dean didn't fight it, maybe five days ago, maybe even yesterday he would have, but after the whack to head, he was so dizzy.　

"What do you want?" Dean cried out.

"I want my money." Boss stepped close. "It seems your daddy got himself arrested, so now you're going to pay me. I'm not stupid enough to think that a sock like you could have, so I figured you'd pay it with your life."　

Dean's eyes couldn't focus, and neither could his head, all he seemed to see was that toothpick bobbing away. He half-heartedly grasped Barge's wrists, with his good hand. He couldn't feel his the fingers on his right hand; they were an unnatural colour, had been for the last day or two.　

"Is that all you got?" Boss said with pity, looking at him just the same.　

Dean made a pitiful sound in return.　

"Like a fish out of water." Barge intoned.

"Whatever you say, Georgie." Boss flicked to tip of his toothpick.　

Barge grunted.　

"Before this goes down," Boss said, pulling out his switch blade, the one that he'd used to threaten to pop Dean's eyes out with. "Any last words there, sunshine?"　

Dean's lips moved.

"What was that?" Boss leaned in closer.　

Dean tried to muster up the strength. He was finding it hard to draw breath, he was dizzy, his head hurt-- everything hurt... he just wanted to close his eyes and go into the darkness. But he said it again, forcing his voice to work, his lips and tongue to move.　

"You're an asshole."

Boss raised his brows. "Those are the last words that you want to say before you die, huh?"　

"No. Those are the last words you're gonna hear if you don't put down the knife."　

Boss looked behind him to see that Vecchio was in the hall, his gun drawn. The Barge turned with him, bringing Dean around.

Fraser sucked in a breath at the sight of the boy.

"Don't make me repeat myself, Mario." Vecchio said. "Drop the knife." He did anyway.　

"This knife, you mean?" Boss waved said knife, the point very close to Dean's ribs.　

Dean's was not struggling and his breath was coming in bare wheezes.

**"** Yeah. That one." Vecchio snapped.

"I can't do that." Boss drawled, rolling his toothpick. "I came for payment and I'm going to get it."　

"Not like this, you're not. Only shot."　

"I can live with that." Boss told him.　

A few things happened after that, very fast succession:

Boss jabbed the knife.　

Dief came out of nowhere with a sharp growl and hooked his teeth into Boss's ankle.　

Vecchio pulled the trigger.

Boss's knife jerked and instead of stabbing Dean, it cut through the material of his shirt and sliced through his pale skin. Dean made another pitiful noise. Boss dropped the knife and went to the ground, Dief on top of him.　

The bullet from Vecchio's gun hit it's target. Missing Dean and planting itself into Barge's neck. Blood spurted. He chocked on his own blood and the man was going down like a condemned building. His grip on Dean went slack.　

"Dean!" Fraser dove, his arms outstretched to try and catch Dean before he made that drop to the floor. Dean was limp in his arms. He hadn't made a sound when he hit, and he barely made one when Boss cut him.

"He okay?" Vecchio asked. He’d put his gun back in the holster and rushed over to Boss, jerking his arms behind his back and cuffing him. Hosting him up. "You're going away for a long time, dirt bag."　

Fraser set Dean on the floor and sat up. He brushed the hair from the boy's forehead and felt the heat that came off it. Dean was pale and his skin was covered in grime. He had dark bruises under his eyes. His right hand looked horrible. His whole front was covered in blood, more blood than Fraser would have expected. "He's breathing, but barely." Fraser told him. "He needs to go to a hospital _now_ , Ray."

"Then hurry." Ray told him.

Dief came over to Fraser as the man picked up the boy, giving a whine of great concern.　

"He's going to be fine." Fraser wasn't sure who he said it to, but the words wouldn't give him any comfort until Dean's emerald eyes were open.

0-0　

"What can you tell us, Doc?" Vecchio asked.

The Doctor that treated Dean was an older man, greying hair but steady hands. He looked from Vecchio to Fraser and back again, deciding whether or not he should divulge this information. But the man in front of him had a badge and the man in red had the look of a worried parent.　

"His condition wasn't good when he came in." The doctor started, "He has a very high fever, and is ill from exposure; not up on his vaccinations with serious malnutrition. His fingers were broken approximately six days ago. They weren't set properly and have long since sustained damage. There was loss of circulation and the nerves were being pinched, but we did manage to save them; with therapy he should regain full use. He has a level one concussion. Minimal bruising around the throat. The knife wound that he sustained was minimal, with fewer stitches."　

Vecchio had to force himself to shut his slack jaw. He glanced at Fraser, who was pale and tight lipped. So he figured that he'd just ask.

"Any signs of abuse?" Vechhio questioned curtly.　

The doctor slowly nodded his head. "Sadly, there was. We found faded bruises on his abdominal area, at least two weeks old. Deep tissue scarring scattered around his body. Somebody used this kid as a punching bag for years; meticulous enough to do an extreme amount of damage without any outwardly noticeable damage." He paused for a moment, looking at Vecchio. "Social Services is going to have to be contacted."　

"Number’s on my desk." Vecchio lied. Truth was that he hadn't even been thinking about that.　

"Am I to assume that whoever is responsible for this has been apprehended so that I don't have to ask for protection for this young boy?" the doctor asked.

"We have it covered." Vecchio told him in his cop voice.　

The doctor gave him what seemed like a very long doctor stare in return. "He's not critical, but we're going to have to keep him here for a few days for observation and until that fever is gone. You can see him whenever you like," he told the two of them before he took leave.

"Thanks," Vecchio muttered. "Fraser?" he turned to his friend.　

Fraser was like a statue. His lips were pursed tight, his hands clenched at his sides. He hadn't said a word since they'd gotten there, something that Vecchio found very concerning since the Constable was usually chatting.　

"He's going to be fine, buddy." Vecchio tried to reassure, patting his shoulder.　

"This is my fault." Fraser muttered, his lips barely parting.

"It's not."

"If I'd acted sooner—" Fraser started, turning to him.　

"You're playing the what-if game, Fraser. Nobody wins that. Look, I have to get back to the precinct-- but haven't you heard the saying _better late than never?_ Hmm?" Vecchio clapped Fraser on the shoulder once again before he too took leave.

Fraser watched him go. He stayed where he was outside of Dean's room, looking through the glass window. Dean looked so small in that big hospital bed, swooned with the hospital gown and pale blankets that matched his skin. His freckles standing out like black ink. He had a few IVs attached to his arms. His hand just a big ball of white bandage resting on top of a pillow, a butterfly-strip at his hairline, purple bruising on his neck. Fraser was glad that it didn't appear to be in the shape of Barge's hand, the man wasn't sure what he'd do if it was.　

He was reluctant to go inside the room, feeling that he didn’t have the right. If he’d acted sooner… Vecchio was right when he said that he was playing the what-if game—one that was un-winnable from all angles. He could what-if for the rest of his life and he could never find a way to make this situation… better. There was nothing he could do now, he reasoned. Not about past events, but the least he could do was stick by Dean’s side until the boy told him to take a hike as it were.　

So he went into Dean’s hospital room and pulled up one of those uncomfortable plastic chairs that the hospital seemed to be well stocked up on and sat by Dean’s bedside. Dief was already there, laying under Dean’s blanket to hide himself because he knew that dogs were not allowed in the hospital—he’d given Fraser a look that clearly stated that he was not a _dog_ but instead a _wolf_ ; something that the Constable was continuous to point to everyone though people clearly didn’t understand. Fraser had countered that this did not make him an exception to the rule because Dief was in fact a canine which was a dog. Clearly Dief didn’t care much for the rule because there he was hunkered under the blankets and curled at Dean’s side—Fraser let this slid because he was sure that Dean would take comfort at having that familiarity of the half-wolf at his side—and maybe that was something that would help him wake faster so that Fraser could look into the boy’s eyes and actually know whether or not the boy was okay.　

0-0

It was at least thirty-six hours until Dean’s emerald green orbs cracked open. Fraser knew that the boy had been under that long not from fever or even illness, but from exhaustion. He took comfort in this long snooze because he knew that the boy probably hadn’t slept like that in his entire life—he was greatly deserving of it.　

The Constable had not moved since he’d first sat down. This was for some selfish reasons that were on his forefront. He was guilty of course. How could he not be? It was his fault… if he’d acted sooner (it was the new what-if mantra in his brain, one that was constant and unmoving). He needed to protected Dean (it didn’t seem selfish, but in fact was), because Fraser _needed_ to for himself —but he also wanted to make sure that nothing bad happened (Dean seemed prone to that sort of thing). It was like he was outside the Canadian Consulate on his shift, ready to take on anything that tried to damage this building and his government’s integrity—but it was a universe’s fold where it concerned Dean. He didn’t go to the bathroom, didn’t shift in the uncomfortable plastic chair (that he was sure was his punishment in some way), he barely blinked. Every nurse that came in got his blazed-blue eyes for their troubles. That he knew was unreasonable, but something that he couldn’t seem to stem. Diefenbaker too, was like a statue. A guard dog—ahem, guard wolf. His amber gaze like hot-fire; he was ready for anything just as Fraser was.　

But they pair were more focused on an foreign attack squad bearing down on them than Dean actually opening his eyes.　

Dean groaned with fever, loudly and angrily as his eyes cracked open to white-wash everything—so dour and drab, an unwelcome sight.

Fraser was on his feet in an instant.

Dean gaze zeroed in on him, but his eyes seem blank in confusion like he had no idea who Fraser was or what was happening. Something that was probably common with just waking up, especially with a concussion. His lips cracked open, but before he could say anything Dief popped out from under the covers with a relieved and excited yap. Dean started at the sight of the wolf, panic rising in his chest at the beast on his bed. That didn’t stop Dief and before Fraser could even consider taking action against the wolf; a big wet tongue met freckled face. 　

Dean grunted in disgust, trying to swat the canine away. It did nothing but seem to give Dief more enthusiasm in his action. But Fraser saw the look his those narrow green eyes, a familiarity. He had come back to himself and how could he not remember Diefenbaker the selective-deaf half-wolf.　

"Okay!" Dean laughed, his left hand coming up to shove the furry face out of his own. "Stop."

After a few more licks, Dief did stop, leaving Dean’s face covered in slobber.

"Ugh." Dean rubbed his face on the sleeve of his scratchy gown. His fingers were in Dief’s soft fur, and now that the wolf had his full share of Dean’s face, had calmed down enough to lie down. His nose planted at Dean’s ear. 　

Dean's looked up at Fraser and the man couldn't help the smile that curved his lips, peeling them from his teeth.

"Dean--" Fraser started. He needed to apologize, for everything. All the what-ifs that he should have taken. For not being able protect Dean when he knew that something was wrong all along.

"I'm..." Dean licked his dry lips, looking away from Fraser. "I'm sorry!" he blurted.　

Fraser furrowed his brows. "I don't understand."

Dean grunted. "I knew that I shouldn't've taken your offer from the start. It was such trouble. You kept giving me money, money that I didn't deserve."

"You worked for that money." Fraser told him.　

Dean snorted painfully. "I literally _watched_ Dief for hours."　

"Diefenbaker can be very difficult." Fraser reasoned.　

Dief's chest rumbled in reflex defensiveness, but it was true; he was rather difficult.

"You overpaid me."　

"You needed the money."

Dean looked away at that. "It was never for me." He muttered.　

Fraser pulled the chair close and sat on the edge. "Dean," his voice was soft. "You didn't deserve anything that had happened to you. You were trying to protect yourself. I am not angry nor am I upset with you. I am in fact, upset with myself."　

Now it was Dean's turn to look at the man with furrowed brows.　

"From the first time that you called, and the first time that we met, and after you're first night with Dief, I knew that something wasn't right. You're a great kid, Dean-- you were just stuck a really, really--"　

"I was put crap situation that blowed." the twelve-year-old completed for him, his eyes dark.　

"Well, yes." Fraser nodded, agreeing that that statement was probably the most accurate.

It was quiet for a long while. Fraser wasn't sure what to say and Dean was feeling rather depressed.　

"We arrested your father," Fraser said, needing to fill the silence as well as Dean should know. "He's going to jail." He watched Dean carefully.　

Dean lips were pursed and he breathed through his nose. He was still pale and had dark bruises under his eyes. His head had been fuzzy when he'd woken up, but he'd shoved that back. He knew that he was on some pain relievers, something that his system was not used to. It's always been pain, always. Never did he have relief, like right now-- and it wasn't just the painkillers either. If... If John was in jail, then he was free. It was an odd feeling. He'd always looked over his shoulder, calculated all his action to get the lesser of emotions from John. But what now?

"We have also apprehended Mario." Fraser told him carefully. He didn't think it was possible, but at the name Dean seemed to pale even further. The boy swallowed, his eyes flickering to his bandaged hand before he looked away, swallowing convulsively. Now Fraser knew, knew that Mario was the one that did that to Dean's fingers. He again felt that anger, that need to harm and it took him a second to force it back. "He's going to prison as well."　

"What--" Dean's voice cracked so he tried again. "What about the other guy, the fat one?"

"Dead."

Dean nodded and he let out a breath. Guess he didn't have to worry about them either. Wow. He didn't have to look over his shoulder anymore. But then...　

"What's going to happen to me?" Dean asked. He went completely tense, his eyes wide as he bore down on Fraser.　

"Social Services is going to be contacted." Fraser told him.

Dean nodded his head, resigned. Of course that was going to happen, he was twelve-years-old. What? Did he think that Fraser-- he was so stupid. He gritted his teeth and his expression hardened.

"I'll be here," Fraser told him. "And so will Dief."

Dief yipped in agreement and gave Dean's face a once over with his tongue. Dean's face scrunched up, but he didn't shove the half-wolf away.　

"Thanks," Dean whispered… to the both of them.

0-0

 


End file.
